


here comes the wrath of heavens

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M, War of Wrath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 04:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4905178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last moments before the end. Their doom is already decided.</p>
            </blockquote>





	here comes the wrath of heavens

The first thing that hits Mairon when he hurries down the wide stone steps to the darkening hallway is the eerie silence. A curtain of calm seems to wrap him tightly the deeper he delves into the underground chambers of the fortress, cutting off the guttural screams, anguished cries and blood-curdling wailing noise of the battlefield. Just a moment ago, he saw one of the smaller dragons fall from the sky, he heard its painful roar – he heard it cut off violently, the final despaired notes hanging in the thick, smoke-filled air. The beast's final cry still resounds in his ears here, where the sounds from the surface do not seem to reach. Tugging at something inside him, tugging at his heart-

Ah. Grief. This is what grief must feel like: as though a finger is digging painfully in an open wound. Funny, he thinks. It must be this silence, absolute, dead, that fills him with sentiments. What a time for becoming soft! With the war raging outside, with the enemy forces not on their doorstep but already in their home, Mairon laughs and frowns at the high-pitched kind of laughter that leaves his lips and echoes in the darkness.

This is the end of all things. He cannot escape from this knowledge.

Shaking his head to himself, he braves the final steps and stands before a heavy iron door engraved with script written in his own elegant cursive. He remembers the first time he saw it. He remembers opening it, then sealing it closed with an enchantment and hiding for a decade behind the protection of that door. A decade followed by another and another until three centuries passed and he convinced himself that he was not hiding, but lying in wait for the return of his Master. Oh, how glorious was the day when the Lord of the fortress finally came back to them – to him! Victorious once more against his hateful captors, Melkor stood in might on that day, bathed in the unholy light of his beloved cursed jewels, so beautiful and so powerful!

There is no shelter behind the iron gate now. Mairon pushes open the heavy door, wincing at the loud creaking noise it makes in the silence. It is probably not audible upstairs among the noises of a battle at the eve of defeat, he reassures himself. Even if it is, it makes no difference. His spells protect this place and it will take a while before the enemy breaks the enchantments. As long as he is alive, he can keep them strong by pouring his life force into them.

'My Lord,' he whispers into the darkness, afraid of raising his voice lest it startles the Vala dwelling inside. He knows he was not supposed to come here and disturb his Master, the orders were very clear on that – but he also knows he will be forgiven for this transgression. If not... it will not matter anyway.

There is no answer, so he takes a careful step into the chamber. His fiery, glowing form is the only source of a flickering, warm light, even clad in the full battle armour crafted so reverently in the hot fires of his forge at the feet of Thangorodrim. Oh, how long ago that seems! He has seen the forges have been utterly destroyed, like most of the fortress which lies in ruin: the throne room carven in stone, the library turned to ash, the towers. His place, his home – battered into dust.

'My Lord, please... you have to flee,' he begs, searching with his eyes for any sign of movement, for any indication of his Master's presence. But he is still met by dead silence. Even his words seem to be devoured by the black, impenetrable darkness: there is no echo in this vast chamber, and his voice is barely audible even as he speaks. He is surrounded by naught but just silence and smoke which has been following him everywhere.

_Fire and ruin_ , he thinks bitterly: his eternal allies, now turned against him in this blasphemous war effort that came from the usurpers of the West. How dare they come upon his Master's own home, wielding the weapons of his make against him? How dare they! The winged host of Manwë, taming and riding the thunder, bathing their feathery arrows in fire; from the sky they come and from the lands, and from the sea, in swarms and in waves, endless. Self-righteous fools, thralls of Valinor, they have come to strike against the rightful lord of Middle-earth, no, of the whole of Arda. Like heathens have they come to slay the one they should call their Master in his own home... but Mairon will not let them. He will never let them. For as long as he exists.

'I wondered when this day would come,' says Melkor, emerging from the darkness.

The crown of Silmarils is not upon his brow, but still his form emanates a kind of holy glow which Mairon so craves to feel on himself. The fitted armour of steel and iron is missing, replaced by a simple robe made of linen. There is a peace in Melkor's expression which seems ethereal and distant, as though – but this cannot be – as though the Vala has given up.

'My Lord, I know of a tunnel you can use,' Mairon says urgently. His Master's hand, which he grasps on impulse, is colder than ice on the peaks of Thangorodrim; the touch chills him to the bone. Still, he does not let go, daring, bold, and he pulls Melkor along – only to meet with resistance.

'It is too late, Mairon,' the Vala says softly.

His white face is like an unmoving mask in the darkness, marred by the deep scars, remnants of past battles. Oh, how painful it is for Mairon to see him like this, so deformed; with longing does he recall the times of old when Melkor reigned powerful on his throne. Hatred fills his entire soul for those who dared pour such grief and pain into his Master's spirit. Time. He needs time: to regroup, to prepare, to attack! Still they can emerge victorious from this cowardly assault. If only Melkor would flee...

'Do you remember when we met?' The Vala asks. His voice is barely audible, slightly hoarse. He closes his eyes, closes his fingers around Mairon's armoured hand. He does not await an answer.

'I found you in the mountains, playing with the snow,' he whispers. 'You were such a curious creature! Like a precious jewel among grey stones, you... you glowed. I never understood what it was about you that made me love you so,' he pauses and looks down upon his Lieutenant with the same kind of wonderment that adorned his face when first they met one another many millennia ago; when one word left Melkor's lips and reached Mairon's ears: _beautiful_.

Mairon cannot utter a word; transfixed, his eyes follow the movement of Melkor's lips as he forms words and sentences that mean everything important in the universe. His vision blurs, but he dares not blink in fear of missing a single moment of closeness. He knows the simple truth. No matter how hard he tries to deny it, in his heart, he knows it; the end is coming to them, too. This fleeting instant, he needs to remember. He needs to etch it into his memory so that it remains when all else is gone. It will never happen again.

'For centuries you were loyal to me,' Melkor says under his breath. He smiles and it lights up his face, transforms it: for a blessed moment, Mairon can almost believe they are once again surrounded by nothing but snow and wind, back in a time when everything was simple and pure: when a flame caught in a jewel seemed to be the most exquisite thing in the entire world. Too soon, the impression fades into darkness; Melkor glances behind Mairon, towards the door.

'You have to go,' he says.

Mairon stares at him. He does not understand, until he does: his Master wishes for him to escape, to go on. Alone. To live and never look back. But he cannot do this. Of course he cannot! How can Melkor expect this of him? Rather, Mairon is ready to die in his defence; does he not realize?

Without Melkor, he is surely as good as dead anyway!

'It is an order,' the Vala hisses urgently when Mairon refuses to move.

'I- I am not leaving!' The Lieutenant replies firmly, but his voice is shaking. This is not fear, he is no longer scared. There is nothing left in the world which can cause him to be scared. This – this is something worse. This is resignation. Regret. Grief: because he realizes that in the end, he will obey his Master's orders, no matter how vehemently he disagrees. And it breaks his heart.

'Kill me,' he begs in an attempt to solicit the tiniest sliver of mercy.

Melkor shakes his head, unshaken in his resolve. 'No, no; you have to live on, just you, Mairon. You are... Your potential. That. I always knew. I always saw you. O, Mairon,' he calls wistfully.

He places a gentle kiss on Mairon's forehead, like a parent, like a mentor, and his lips are cold, and this is not what he is to Mairon, this is not what he has ever been, but this has to be enough- This, he has to remember and treasure; they both have to. There will never be more.

Above them, the world shakes in its foundations as the sky is falling upon the remnants of the fortress that withstood a centuries-long siege. Their doom is decided.

The silence breaks into a million pieces, smoke fills Mairon's eyes, nose and ears; he feels as the enchantment of his own making is lifted through his Master's overpowering will and the iron door breaks down under the assault from the other side; and his Master's hand lets go of his own. With a sharp cry of anguish, he attempts to hold on, but his fingers grasp at nothing but ash and smoke. Dark voices fill the silence, unfamiliar, hateful, voices of triumph speaking in a language he does not want to understand, ugly and cursed, and Mairon cannot do a thing; suspended in the horror of this moment, he watches the mightiest of the Valar, his Lord, his most beloved – he watches Melkor fall.

And as his Master is struck down without a fight, chained and humiliated in the cruel eyes of his captors, Mairon flees.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this while taking a break from my original fiction. Also I listened to very sad music throughout. And it's short, but... well. There's nothing left to say.  
> I think I want to write something light-hearted for angbang next time.


End file.
